That was a relief, at least. With that playful, friendly wink, he knew Phee had shared her secret. That look had been one of shared conspirators, not lovers.
Then, there. Only a flicker, but Phee glanced his way. As if worried he would protest the marriage—which would require Cal to reveal her secret in front of Eastly and a vicar. The trust they’d built was truly gone if she thought he would betray her.
Vicar Norton announced them man and wife, and that was that. Before God and everything. With the deed done, the vicar shook everyone’s hand, wished the couple a long and happy life together, then departed.
Impeccably awful timing securely in place, his father elbowed him. “You’re next, Son.”
Cal closed his eyes and wished he could will himself back to bed, where he’d awake with Phee pressed snugly against his side and discover the past twenty-four hours had been a nightmare.
When Cal opened his eyes, the reality remained unchanged, and Eastly still stood there with his never-ending expectations of compliance. But why shouldn’t Father anticipate Cal’s obedience? It wasn’t as if Cal greeted each new disaster with a smile, but there had always been a willingness on his part. Years of this pattern—in both his and Father’s roles—had created one reliable point of stability in their family. Fixing everything proved time and again that Cal was useful. That he held value in a relationship where he otherwise never received affirmation, despite his achievements.
Phee and Emma wore twin looks of censure, as if to remind him of every misstep in this latest effort he’d bungled. Cal sighed, suddenly too old and tired to fake cheer.
“Father, I’ll only say this once, so pay attention. I am not marrying Violet Cuthbert. The whole purpose of this house party was to find a match that would satisfy Rosehurst and get you out of your latest debacle.”
“Judging by your father’s shocked expression, you should have made your wishes on the matter clear sooner.” Phee’s statement would be mistaken for polite commentary by anyone who didn’t know better. If Cal stood close enough, he’d probably feel her vibrating with restrained rage.
Sighing, Cal slumped into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. So that was how this was going to happen. With witnesses. “I promised I would handle it, and I have been trying to do that. You had enough to worry about with your uncle—who is still a threat. And thanks to this marriage, my sister is now in danger as well.”
Emma stepped closer to Phee, as if forming a wall of solidarity. The battle lines couldn’t be clearer. He was the enemy.
“Friends don’t hide things from one another, Lord Carlyle. No matter their intention,” Phee said.
Lord, she’d used his title. Another piece of his battered heart broke off and turned to dust. A spike of anger flickered to life amidst the pain. “Speaking of hiding things, when were you two going to say something about Emma’s condition?”
His sister bit her lip and looked away. Something that might have been guilt crossed Phee’s face before disappearing behind a hard, composed mask. “That wasn’t my news to share. As to Milton, if his goal was to eliminate me before I could inherit, that’s now moot. I’m married; I’ve fulfilled the terms of my parents’ will.”
“And the insurance policy?”
“If he paid for it out of the estate, then I’ll have the power to cancel it.”
There was the quick mind he’d relied on for the last two years. Losing her as a lover was gutting. Losing her as an employee would have lasting repercussions too. Cal shook his head. A dull throb thrummed at his temple.
“All right, but this doesn’t end when you notify the solicitor of your marriage. If you think Milton will just shrug and slink off when he finds you’ve outmaneuvered him, you’re delusional. The threat remains.”
Eastly cleared his throat. “Murderous uncles, pregnant daughters, and barons with the power to destroy us. It’s quite the party you’re having, Son. We’d best hope your machinations are effective, because if Miss Cuthbert doesn’t catch the eye of someone during this visit, there will be no saving us.” On the list of things sustaining his father’s existence, drama ranked high, along with opera singers and other men’s wives. With typical flair, the marquess delivered that dire prediction-cum-threat, then swept from the room.
Everyone observed his departure, then looked at one another in silence for a moment. Exhaustion made Cal’s feet feel like he wore lead-lined boots as he rose. “You could have warned me about the marriage.”
“For someone so comfortable misleading the people in his life, you might want to check your position right now,” Phee said.
“I asked you to trust me. I needed you to trust me.” The words came out sounding strangled. Phee’s mouth tightened into a hard line.
“And I needed you to be an honest partner. You wouldn’t have kept Adam in the dark. Before this last month, you would’ve not only included me but expected me to help you,” she said.
Ouch. She was right. He would have told Adam everything and pulled him into the details. But Phee? He’d treated her like someone he could pat on the head while saying, There, there, I’ll fix it. She’d said partner and he’d failed there too. “You’re right, Phee. I hate that you’re right, but you are. As usual.” Cal turned to Emma. “And you should have told me, brat.”
Emma nodded. “I know, but I was scared. Besides, you don’t have to fix everything, big brother.” With a grimace, she added, “I suppose we go tell everyone else now. Not that I’m really in the mood to celebrate.”
“Are the vases in danger again?” Phee asked, quirking her lips.
Emma laughed. “I don’t think so. But that could change at any moment. Stand at the ready, Phee. I might need you.”
Hearing Phee’s real name from Emma made Cal smile. Phee had one more friend who knew and would keep her secret, and knowing she wouldn’t be alone was a relief. “I’m glad you know the truth, Emma.”
“That Adam is actually Phee? Of course I do. Now, I may not want any champagne, but I have the fiercest craving for rhubarb tart. Do you think we could convince Cook to make some?”
“You’re the bride. You get what you want.” Phee offered her arm.
“One moment.” Emma fluffed the linen of Phee’s cravat. “There. Can’t have you appearing less than perfect when we tell everyone you’ve caught me.”
Phee laughed and shook her head. “Very wifely of you.”
They slipped out the door together, leaving Cal no choice but to watch them go, then swear profusely into the empty room.
* * *
“The tension between you and my brother is so thick, it would choke a goat. Also, you’re pale as a sheet,” Emma hissed. “I think the better question is, Do you need a vase?”
Phee pulled in a steadying breath. “Facing him was harder than expected.”
“You handled yourself beautifully when face-to-face with him, though. And again, I can’t thank you enough.” Emma squeezed Phee’s arm in a sort of side-body hug.
“We are helping each other. And as we said, we will deal with the future together.” Echoing the words Cal had said to her in the library made Phee wince. In the grand scheme of things, her and Cal’s brief stint as lovers would be a mere blip compared to the years ahead of her. Eventually, she might think of this time at Lakeview as nothing more than a lovely visit to the countryside. But right now, she hurt. Like vinegar on a wound, thoughts of being with Cal made her ache.
Since overhearing the conversation with the marquess yesterday, Phee had discovered a spectrum of pain. A sting, a throb, crippling agony—all unique and Cal’s fault.
Except, with the first step of her plan executed and Cal’s reaction played out for her to see, Phee had to wonder if there’d been another way. An explanation that would have satisfied her or exonerated him.
A hiccup of breath threatened tears if she explored that line of thought further. No. It was done. Anger kept her going right now. There’d be a time to set that anger aside and grieve everyt
hing, but showing him the full extent of her pain wouldn’t happen—and certainly not in the public rooms of his grand house, swarming with guests.
The murmur of voices filtered down the corridor from the breakfast room, where the late risers were beginning their day.
Phee had already died a thousand deaths and gotten married before they’d even drunk their first cup of tea. Straightening her shoulders, she nodded to Emma. “Let’s get this over with.”
“It will be all right. You’ll see. I’ll do my society-darling bit and smile a lot, and we will get through this. They’ll expect us to disappear after breakfast, then you can spend a few hours alone if you want to.”
What a bloody depressing wedding day. It hit her then. “Emma, I’m sorry. Here I’m focused on my disaster with Cal, and I haven’t once thought about what you’re giving up. This isn’t the wedding day you dreamed of, nor am I the groom you wanted.”
Emma’s dimples flashed, although the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Both of us gained and lost in this arrangement. Not to mention the potential eternal damnation for taking vows under false pretenses.”
Phee wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “For what it’s worth, you’re a beautiful bride. I’d like to think God understands the situation.”
When they entered the breakfast room arm in arm and announced their marriage, there was a moment of shocked silence. Miss Lillian was the first to stand and offer her well-wishes, then the others followed. Most of the congratulations sounded genuine, if skeptical. Everyone knew Lady Emma Carlyle had married beneath her. Phee shook hands, accepted the good-natured teasing from the men, and counted the minutes until she could retreat to her room.
The worst of it would come later, when any suspicions about the hasty marriage would be confirmed as news of the baby spread. By then, she and Emma would be long gone from London. For now, it would be the wedding itself that would set tongues wagging.
Perhaps the political climate would distract from Lady Emma’s unexpected match. With Queen Caroline essentially on trial and fighting to keep her title, the papers were busy with those salacious details. Mr. Nobody Hardwick marrying the daughter of a marquess should not warrant much more than a simple announcement. They could hope, anyway.
Servants rushed to provide champagne for the impromptu celebration. Raising a flute, Phee toasted Emma. “To the most beautiful bride in England.”
The sparkling wine slid cool and fizzy down her throat, washing away the unease of the morning. In its wake, resolve settled in her heart. She didn’t want to live the rest of her life remembering what it felt like to be held—she wanted to be held, and safe, and loved by someone who saw her beauty the way she did now. At the moment, it seemed impossible to imagine such a thing with anyone but Cal, but if Adam’s death had taught her one thing, it was that Phee could endure far more than she thought. So while she couldn’t picture it now, she knew someday she’d have love, safety, and a life that made her happy. And Emma deserved the same.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A special license, eh?” Milton’s solicitor looked over the half-moons of his spectacles and raised unruly silver brows at Phee. “You found a girl with money, then.” He studied the document closer. “The Marquess of Eastly’s chit? My, my, you are coming up in the world, Mr. Hardwick.”
Phee bit her tongue and did her best to maintain a benign expression. “I’m sure we will be very happy.” That should be innocuous enough. Every word during a visit to the solicitor handling her parents’ estate—and by extension, her uncle’s—would get back to Milton. After all, this same solicitor had drafted the marriage contracts for a thirteen-year-old girl and hadn’t raised a fuss. Closing this chapter of her life would be a relief. Plus, she’d never again have to set foot in this office, which smelled of musty onions and moldy books.
“It appears all is in order. You’ve fulfilled the terms of your parents’ will, and funds will be available to you as laid out in their last wishes. Given your young age, you’ll want to keep your uncle on the accounts to oversee the transition period,” the solicitor said, as if it were a foregone conclusion. That the solicitor’s first inclination was to keep Milton in charge only confirmed his loyalties.
“Absolutely not. Effective immediately, I’m taking full control of my inheritance. Should questions arise, I have the resources and counsel of the Marquess of Eastly and my brother by marriage, the Earl of Carlyle.”
Name-dropping her new connections had a satisfying effect on the solicitor, who drooped slightly but nodded. Not only that, but she’d managed to say Cal’s title without choking. In light of everything, Phee counted that as progress.
After this there’d be a visit to a different solicitor—one Phee knew from her former position with Cal. Although it pained her to admit Cal was right about anything at the moment, he’d been right about Milton. To expect her uncle to tuck his tail between his legs and scamper off was unrealistic. Protecting Emma and the baby needed to be the top priority. That meant a will of her own with provision for Emma and her rather excessive dowry with a solicitor she could trust.
Thankfully, the next solicitor was easier to deal with and had the added benefits of not being a snitch to her uncle or of smelling like onions. The last order of business on the agenda was to call on the offices of Hapsburg Life and Property. If Phee’s accounts had paid for a life-insurance policy, then she owned said policy. God forbid, but if something did happen to her, Phee didn’t want Milton benefiting from her death.
Finally, a hackney deposited her in front of Cal’s address. The whitewashed edifice of his townhome loomed over the street. Black cornices framed the windows like concerned eyebrows, so the house looked like it judged all who passed by. Strange that she’d never noticed the effect before now. Knowing the awkward silence awaiting Phee in that house made her want to tell the hack driver to take her anywhere else.
Cal’s decision to stay behind at Lakeview had bought Phee and Emma some peace, but things between the three of them had been chilly since his return home. Everyone tried to remain civil, but frankly, Phee couldn’t wait to move. Eastly hadn’t been forthcoming with an offer to stay with him. So until Milton’s fingers were officially removed from Phee’s banking, she and Emma were keeping rooms on Hill Street, where they shared brutally tense dinners with Cal every night.
In the gold drawing room, Emma sprawled rather inelegantly on a chaise, idly flipping through the most recent copy of La Belle Assemblée. Phee grinned. Marriage to Emma—as unorthodox and platonic as it was—had been a bit of a revelation. Her new friend made an entertaining companion, and with the fear for her future gone, Emma’s excitement about the baby grew each day. Having a female friendship was foreign but surprisingly fun.
With all the pregnancy talk between them, it had been a relief when Phee’s courses arrived right on schedule. One less potential scandal for the Earl of Carlyle to deal with—not that he’d done that great a job with the last few.
When the door closed behind Phee, Emma didn’t look up. Instead, she turned the magazine around to show an illustration of a gown and said, “Do you think this style would mask my condition for a while longer? Waistlines are tightening and lowering right when mine is expanding. It’s dreadfully unfair.”
Phee squinted at the drawing. “Lady Amesbury swears by Madame Bouvier’s designs. If you visit her shop, she could probably create something like that but with room for the baby.”
Emma flipped the magazine around and tilted her head to the side as if considering. “Madame Bouvier made my wardrobe for the Season. I might visit her again. You don’t mind if I get a few new gowns?”
“It’s your money—why would I care what you do with it? Besides, you’ll need clothing for your confinement. All I ask is that we pay our bills promptly. We won’t live on credit. I…can’t. Not after living with the poorest of London. People deserve to be paid for their work promptly.”
“I’ve never thought of credit that way before. But
I hear what you are saying. You really don’t mind me buying a new wardrobe? People will say Mr. Hardwick overindulges his new wife,” Emma teased.
“Well, we both know he does nothing else with his new wife. The poor girl deserves to feel pretty,” Phee said dryly.
“Being married to you is better than I thought it would be.” Emma grinned.
“I’m glad you think so, because we should talk about what’s next. Uncle Milton is probably even now being told that my money is beyond his reach. Shockingly, the account was healthier than I expected. Unfortunately, his solicitor knows you came with a generous dowry, since that is hardly a secret. We are a tempting target for Milton’s ire at the moment, and I have no idea what he will do.”
“With the legalities observed, we should publish the marriage notice in the Times. Otherwise it looks like we’re ashamed of the connection or hiding something,” Emma said.
Phee dropped into the nearest chair. “Agreed. On the topic of hiding—do you still want to leave Town before you start to show?”
“I think that’s best, yes. You’ve already done your part. My baby will be legitimate. We should move towards fulfilling my end of the bargain. So—” Emma took a deep breath as if bracing for impact. “To that end, perhaps you should get a few things from Madame Bouvier as well.”
Unease seized Phee, even though Emma had a point. Years of dreaming about a hypothetical someday, and suddenly that someday was a now.
“Surely Madame Bouvier has a few things on hand.” Emma nodded toward Phee’s clothes. “You’re handy with a needle. We’ll buy something premade and alter it.”
Phee tried to imagine owning a gown. Fitting it to her adult body. Feeling pretty in her clothes, versus ensuring she didn’t look like herself. Would she be comfortable in a dress, or would it feel like a costume, like her cravats did now? Those weeks with Cal had changed her, destroying the ease Phee had once found within Adam’s persona. At the idea of a beautiful dress, a bubble of hopeful happiness settled uncomfortably in her chest alongside her broken heart. Phee rubbed at her breastbone and turned to stare out the window as she mentally walked through the next steps of their plan.
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